


The Rogers Identity

by antigrav_vector



Series: CapIM bingo fills - 2015 [13]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Bourne Identity (2002)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Amnesia, Cap_Ironman Bingo, Gen, amnesiac steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigrav_vector/pseuds/antigrav_vector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Found lost at sea, without his memories, he's trying to find out who he is with nothing to go on except a bank account number in Zurich...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the "AU: fusion" square on my bingo card. Beta'ed by the lovely [lil_1337](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337).

\------------ Somewhere on the Mediterranean, not far from the African Coast -- JAN 14, 2002; 18:36 hours, local time ------------

It was a dark and stormy mid-January night on the Mediterranean; the swells were deep and came every couple of seconds, slamming into the side of the small fishing trawler every so often, making her shudder and yaw wildly. The captain, one Giacomo Vanetti, normally wouldn't have bothered leaving port in this kind of weather, but the season until then had been bad and the whole crew needed the income.

They were at anchor for the time being, the weather making it pointless to try to fish. They would only be risking injury to bother, really. In this storm the catch would be almost nothing. So all of them except the lookout, which was Matteo for the duration of this watch, were below decks in the main cabin where they would stay relatively dry. The ship's doctor, Giancarlo, was sitting in his favourite alcove off to the port side of the small cabin, reading. Giacomo and the remaining two of his crew were playing cards, occasionally pausing to catch the chips and keep them from sliding off the small table when the boat rode out a big swell.

The relative calm was shattered by a shout from the lookout.

"Shit! Shit! Man overboard!"

At first it didn't make sense; all of his crew were here in the cabin, and the lookout was obviously fine, he was pounding on the cabin door, shouting, "All of you, get your asses out here!"

A shocked moment later, the four of them were scrambling to their feet, and lunging for their coats.

Sure enough, once they were up on deck, a flash of light could be seen between the waves every so often. "Francesco," Giacomo called out, "prepare the crane! We may have to lift him out! Barto! Grab the boat hook and see if you can pull him in closer to the boat! Giancarlo," he turned to the doctor as the others scrambled to obey orders, "he may need help, but in these cold seas I fear he is likely already dead, or drowned by the storm."

It took them a few tries to get the man close enough to the boat to catch him with the crane and lift him up onto the deck, and in that time all of them got drenched almost as badly as the man they'd just fished out of the water. A man who lay limply on the deck, skin tinged blue, and lifeless.

Francesco and Bartolomeo were kneeling over him, looking for some way to identify the body. Giacomo watched them, offering a prayer for the poor man's soul as he did. Whoever this guy had been, the captain noted, he'd been built like a bruiser. Muscles everywhere, and blond hair that was flopping down into his face.

When Francesco reached for the zipper at the collar of the man's weird almost-dive-suit, putting the back of one hand against the man's neck to peel it away from his skin, he paused, a startled expression taking over his face. He kept his hand where it was, and bent over the man's face.

"Holy Mary mother of God," Francesco prayed, then looked up. "Giacomo, he's still breathing!"

Giacomo stood there for a moment, stunned. Kicking himself back into action, he called. "Then get him down to Giancarlo! Now! Barto, help him! Matteo and I will stow the equipment."

It was several hours later that Giancarlo staggered back out of the little room he had been given to work in, looking like he'd been in a wrestling match with a bear.

This time, it was Barto's turn on watch. The rest of them looked at the doctor expectantly, as he took a deep breath and nodded. "He'll recover," Giancarlo reported, "but he has lost his memory. He does not know who he is, and it... upsets him."

Giacomo considered this for a moment. He could tell that something had happened between the two, but Giancarlo seemed to consider it pardoned. He decided not to interfere. It was not his place to defend his ship's doctor, and needlessly causing strife where there was none was pointless. "There were no distress calls on the radio before we found him," Giacomo responded, speaking slowly. "Likely no one even knows he is missing, so we cannot use that method to determine who he is. I think it would be best to take him on as temporary crew until we return to Roma."

Francesco and Matteo nodded. "He can help us haul in the catch," Francesco agreed. "Ever since Barto hurt his arm last week, he's been complaining about wrestling with heavy nets of fish."

 

\------------ Somewhere on the Mediterranean, approaching the port of Rome -- JAN 29, 2002; 07:36 hours, local time ------------

It hadn't taken the crew long to give their foundling a nickname, calling him Nemo, after the nameless submariner in Jules Verne's novel. After the storm passed, and the ship had started sailing along its planned course, things had been almost back to normal for the first two days. Barto had coined the nickname, and they'd all been amused enough by it to use it. Even the man himself.

Giacomo couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at his lips at the memory of the amnesiac's relief that morning. Any name was better than none, it seemed. He'd taken Nemo aside an hour or so after he'd woken and explained their itinerary.

That, oddly, seemed to calm him a lot, and Nemo had immediately agreed to help out aboard ship, as long as they showed him what he needed to do.

"I may not have my memories," he'd said, his Italian passable, "but I'm grateful for your help. Once we make port, I'm going to have to leave. My only clue to my identity is a bank deposit box in Zurich."

Somehow, as though pulling Nemo out of the waves had brought them good luck, their haul over their two week trip had been far better than expected.

And now, here they were, approaching port. Giacomo was almost sad to have to let Nemo leave, but they couldn't keep him on. Nemo needed to go find out who he was. They all watched as Giancarlo approached Nemo, looking over every so often as they offloaded their catch.

Giacomo couldn't hear what was said, and didn't see the money the five of them had put in to get Nemo started on his journey change hands, but Nemo's face fell for a brief moment before he shook the doctor's hand.

 

\------------ In a small bank near the port of Rome -- JUN 19, 2002; 13:22 hours, local time ------------

June was a little more than half over, and July was looming, bringing with it the usual crowds of tourists and chaos. It had been six months since they'd picked up Nemo, and none of the crew had heard from him in that time.

That, of course, was when Nemo broke his silence. Out of the blue, Giacomo received a wire transfer for one hundred thousand US dollars. It came with a note that instructed him to divide the money up evenly between the January crew.

There was no signature or name on the note or the transfer slip, but there was really only one person who it could be from, and the knowledge made him smile.

He wanted to protest, to refuse the gift; the amount was too generous. But he couldn't return it without a name and address to send it to. Shaking his head as he gave in, Giacomo decided he would follow the instructions Nemo had given him.

Twenty thousand dollars, per person. That amounted to nearly half a year's income for each of them, and made him wonder just who in the world they had pulled out of the water that night...


	2. Chapter 2

\------------ Roma Tiburtina Train Station -- JAN 29, 2002; 09:40 hours, local time ------------

It hadn't taken much effort to get a train ticket to the Swiss-Italian border once he'd worked out where the station was. All he'd had to do was pose as a rather confused tourist, as the crew of the fishing boat had advised him. No one had asked for the ID he didn't have, and paying cash got him some raised eyebrows, but nothing more.

The cashier did tell him that his lira wouldn't have been accepted had he come through next month. Which struck him as odd, but given the state of his memory, Nemo wasn't about to do more than shrug and thank the man as he took his ticket and change.

He didn't have much time to waste before the train left, though. In the thirty minutes he had, he went to the bank across the street and exchanged the bulk of the cash he had left for a mix of Euros and Swiss Francs. He would likely need both.

He had no ID with which to cross the border legally, so he was going to have to find another way. Nemo wanted to sigh, but bit it back. There were ways to get around that that he could think of, albeit most of them dangerous ones.

The weirdest thing about all of this, really, was that, for all that he had no idea who he was, he seemed to remember everything else. He knew how to do complex math, and how to tie a fancy knot in his tie. He knew Italian and English, and how international travel visas worked.

He knew how to use a gun.

And he knew he didn't like to kill.

\------------ Train Station, Como, Italy -- JAN 29, 2002; 17:49 hours, local time ------------

Night was falling, and he needed a place to rest. A quick inquiry at the train station netted him the name and address of a nearby bed and breakfast. 

It turned out to be a tiny little place, huddled under a layer of snow at the foot of a mountain. If he hadn't been driven by the need to move on, Nemo thought, looking around, he'd have been happy to stay here for a while.

Going inside, he immediately fetched up against a small reception desk in the tiny foyer. "Evening," he said, "I'd like a room, but I've lost my ID. I do have some lira in cash, though. Is it possible to...?"

"Certainly. A single room for the night will cost you sixty-five thousand lira. Please fill in your information here," the middle-aged lady prompted him, handing him a form and turning away to fetch a key. "You can call me Maria."

He blinked at the form for a moment as she worked, and then his hand started moving, seemingly without any input from his brain. He automatically filled in a name and address info that he didn't remember knowing, then stared at it.

Nemo only jerked back to awareness when Maria politely cleared her throat and held out her hand for the form.

"Oh! Sorry. I'm quite tired," he apologised. "It's been a long stressful day."

"Of course," she smiled, taking it, and tearing off the last of the carbon copies for him, handing it to him with the room key. "Here is your receipt, and here is your key. Dinner will be served in an hour. If you would like to join us, let me know, and I can add it to your bill directly. Breakfast is included, and will be served between 6 and 9 am."

"How much does dinner cost?" he asked, cautiously eying the total.

"Thirty-five thousand lira," Maria replied, and Nemo relaxed slightly; that converted to about 18 euros, and it meant he had enough lira left that he wouldn't have to dip into the money he'd set aside for his trip to Zurich. "Your room is up the stairs to the right, and on the left side of the hallway."

"Thank you," Nemo smiled, letting his tiredness show a little more. "I think I will accept your invitation for dinner."

"Excellent," she smiled at him sympathetically and pointed to an area to her left. "The dining room is just beyond the foyer, here."

\------------ Bed and Breakfast La Cucina, Como, Italy -- JAN 30, 2002; 07:49 hours, local time ------------

After a light breakfast, Nemo took advantage of having access to a shower to clean up, touching up the half-assed attempt he'd made to shave before dinner last night. He really had been tired. Travelling long distances by train was surprisingly draining.

Feeling presentable for the first time in weeks, he made a face at the hideous orange sweater Bartolomeo had given him, loathe to put it back on even though it was clean. It was beat up and stained, and still reeked of fish and brine, but it was warm. He'd tried to wash it last night, and hung it over the radiator to dry, but the smell just wouldn't come out completely. He suspected it never would.

Forcing himself to pull it over his head, Nemo gathered his meagre possessions and made his way down to the foyer to pay. Maria was back at the desk, and seemed to be doing bookkeeping.

She looked up when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Good morning," she smiled, and Nemo suddenly didn't want to leave. "Are you ready to check out?"

It was amazing how attached he'd gotten to the friendly owner in the short few hours he'd been here. Nemo abruptly realised he was lonely, for all that he didn't even know his own name. He'd claimed to be a John Michael Kane last night, but something about that name rang oddly false to him. It made him glad to have the nickname Barto had given him to fall back on, so that he could put off these thoughts until he'd seen exactly what was in that bank in Zurich.

Shaking off the thoughts, though, he managed a smile of his own. "I am, and I wanted to thank you for being understanding about my situation."

"A handsome young man like you, down on his luck? Who would say no," she joked.

Obligingly he laughed, for all that he wasn't sure he agreed with her assessment. "Well, thank you, Maria." He handed her the lira he had left, wanting to reward her kindness, and told her, "keep the change."

"Oh!" She blinked, surprised, then immediately started to scold him. "But without your wallet, you shouldn't do that! Don't be a noble idiot. Take the change and go find yourself a proper coat!"

"But--"

"No! No objections! Or I will be forced to get one of our spares! You'll catch cold without one in this weather!"

Nemo felt torn between affection for her, touched by her concern for him despite the fact that he was a total stranger, and irritation at her expert manipulation of him. "Alright, Maria," he conceded, deciding the best course of action would be to just go along with it, "but only if you will allow me to repay the kindness later."

"Hmph!" She looked him over critically. "We do well enough here. Pay the kindness forward to someone else in need."

He made note of her name and address anyway. He would repay her later. Somehow. And that was final.

\------------ Cavallesca, Italy, town center -- JAN 30, 2002; 09:16 hours, local time ------------

Stepping off the bus and pausing to adjust his parka and his backpack -- both acquired used, along with a pair of disreputable looking hiking boots, at the tiny second-hand shop in the Como town center -- Nemo looked critically at his map. He'd taken the chance and traced it from a placard at the train station, sketching in the mountains along the border and the hiking paths that led across them.

He'd decided to go over the low mountains at the border on foot, and to hell with the risks. Sasso di Cavallesca was only about 600 meters high, after all, and the distance to Chiasso from there was another two kilometers, as the crow flew.

Chiasso, on the Swiss side of the border, would be the perfect place to buy his next train ticket. It had a direct rail connection to Zurich, and the EuroCity trains ran every two hours.

But first he had to get there.

Folding up the map and tucking it into the inside pocket of his parka, Nemo smiled to himself and set off. With a bit of luck, he'd be in Chiasso in time for lunch. Not that he intended to stay long enough to eat.

\------------ Chiasso train station, Switzerland -- JAN 30, 2002; 11:09 hours, local time ------------

Tired, chilled through, and hungry, he might be, but he had made it and now he had his ticket to Zurich in his hand. That had required almost all his Swiss Francs. He had exchanged half his remaining euros for Swiss Francs at the train station, happy to be able to avoid going into a bank. Euros apparently weren't widely accepted in Switzerland, and that would become a problem if he had to stay for more than a day or so.

Staking out a spot on a cold metal bench, Nemo sat down to wait for the train to arrive. In the process of getting to the station, he'd taken a few spills on the slippery snowy paths that had left him slightly sore and half-soaked the ill-fitting jeans that Francesco had given him, but the Swiss apparently had the habit of walking in the mountains the year round. He'd been very glad of that; it had definitely worked in his favor. The paths had been clearly marked, and also showed evidence of plenty of foot traffic, in places, which meant his own tracks would be that much less visible.

He was now, however, safely across the border and would spend the next three and a half hours ensconced on a warmly heated train directly to Zurich, with only a few stops in between.

Once he was on the train, Nemo gave in to the temptation to rest, wrapping his parka around his backpack and using it as a pillow.

He was only woken once, when the conducteur came through to take tickets.

\------------ Zurich Central train station, Switzerland -- JAN 30, 2002; 14:28 hours, local time ------------

After the smaller train stations he'd been in so far, the sheer number of people in Zurich was almost overwhelming. Even Rome hadn't felt as crowded, though, Nemo had to admit, that had probably been a result of the fact that he'd been there at an off time, just after rush hour, when everyone was already at work.

Zurich, it appeared, was busy throughout the day.

Picking an empty patch of wall, he stopped to take a breath and get his bearings. He had an address for this bank. Now he needed a map.

And possibly a tram ticket.


	3. Chapter 3

\------------ Gemeinschaftsbank, Zurich, Switzerland -- JAN 30, 2002; 15:21 hours, local time ------------

Walking into the bank was like stepping into a different world. Where outside, it had been cold and windy, the street lined on either side with dull colored stone and brick, inside the bank everything was warm light and cream marble.

The foyer opened onto a second large high-ceilinged room, empty save for a desk with a single receptionist. A set of wide curving stairs was visible to his right, barred by two sections of red velvet rope. 

The receptionist, a young lady in her mid-twenties, gave him a disdainful look when he stepped up to her, clearly looking at his worn and dirty clothes and expecting to have to call someone to escort him out of the building.

"I'm here about a numbered account," Nemo informed her, his tone firm.

With a tiny huff, she slid a piece of paper at him. "Please write down the account number here, and I will make sure it reaches the correct officer."

A test, and an obvious one. She didn't think he actually had an account. Carefully, deliberately, he wrote out the number he'd gotten off the laser pointer capsule that Giancarlo had dug out of his hip. At the time, he'd been disturbed to realise that he'd immediately memorised it without even really trying. Now that was coming in handy.

This whole trip was one hell of a gamble, and he could only hope it paid off. If the deposit box turned out to be empty, he didn't know what he'd do. That account number was still the only clue had had to his identity, so if it led to a dead end...

Nemo set the thought aside, and slid the piece of paper back toward the receptionist. "I trust this is sufficient," he asked, raising an eyebrow at her, unable to resist the slight dig.

She didn't answer, simply handing the piece of paper to a man in a suit who appeared behind her as if summoned.

He waited there some five minutes before the man returned. "Follow me please, sir."

The man led him to an elevator hidden in the alcove under the stairs, and pressed the call button. "Take this elevator down to floor B2," he said. "Our representatives there will assist you."

"Thank you," Nemo told him, politer than he had been to the receptionist.

"A good afternoon to you, sir," the man smiled perfunctorily and left.

Moments later, a soft ping signalled the arrival of the elevator car. He stepped in, pushed the correct button, and waited. The trip down seemed to take a long time.

When the doors opened, the scene that met his eyes felt oddly sinister. The walls were paneled with a dark material that looked like neither wood nor stone, and the floor was an odd off-grey with lozenge shaped inlays in a darker grey. At the far end of the room, was a set of bars he'd have expected to see in a prison, delineating the area that contained the secure vaults the bank's deposit boxes were kept in. The pair of suited men standing to either side of the elevator doors were built like bruisers, and clearly hired muscle intended to stop unauthorised people from gaining access to the area. The third, waiting beside a futuristic looking panel, stepped out in front of him, and stared him down as he approached.

Nemo felt almost threatened, but swallowed it back. He _needed_ to know what was in that deposit box.

When Nemo was within arm's reach of the man, the stranger spoke. "Right hand on the panel," he instructed brusquely, as though reminding Nemo of something he should have known.

And perhaps he should have. But he hadn't.

Forcing the unease aside a second time, Nemo obeyed without a word, watching the panel carefully until it lit green. The goon stepped aside, with a nod. "Please have a seat in alcove number three. Your box will be brought out shortly."

As promised, under two minutes later, he had his box in front of him, and the attendant was unlocking it. With a nod, the man left, and Nemo hurriedly pulled the curtain again.

That left him staring at the box torn between fear that it couldn't possibly be this easy, and elation that it was.

Fumbling off the lid, and opening the box, he found a US passport, a driver's license with an address in Paris, a bunch of credit cards, and some other personal items made out to one 'Steven G. Rogers'.

Stifling a loud sigh of relief, Nemo found himself almost blinking back tears. _He had a name._

Lifting up the green divider to get to the next compartment of the deposit box, though, almost sent him into a panic; it contained a handgun, large wads of cash in a number of different currencies, and five more passports, all in different nationalities. Looking at them in turn, almost frantic, he discovered that not only were they all valid, he seemed to know a language for each one. Brazilian, Russian, German, Slovak, French... He stopped listing. 

Forcing himself to take a mental step back and breathe, Steve closed his eyes.

He needed a place to lay low, and his listed address in Paris seemed as good a place as any, nevermind that he couldn't remember ever being there before.

He just needed a way to get there.

The cash in the box would let him do that handily, but he had to assume that this box would be watched. His instincts were screaming that at him, and he couldn't disagree, even in his current state.

Use of any of these passports would probably also send up flags somewhere.

He had no other choice, though. He needed the means to survive, until he could figure out what to do. He had a name, now, yes, but that was all. He still knew nothing about who he'd been or what he did. Though he was starting to suspect that it was something less than legal. Maybe he was part of a smuggling ring.

The thought sent a wince through him, and almost convinced him to take nothing but the cash.

But no. Leaving the passports would also be leaving behind leverage for someone to use on him. It would be better to take those, too, and dump them individually in random trash cans as he travelled. Let whoever found them either steal them or report them lost at the respective embassies. Once he had a chance, he would need to establish a new identity. One not connected with any of these.

Decision made, he dumped everything but the handgun into his backpack and closed the box back up. Giving it back to the attendant, he felt eyes on him, and carefully ignored them.

Yeah. This box was definitely being watched. But without any idea of whom, he could only play dumb.

Before leaving, he paused long enough to ask, exercising the German he didn't remember he knew until he'd looked through the passports, "Excuse me, can you tell me when this deposit box was last accessed?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure," the attendant answered. "I believe it was about three weeks ago."

"Thanks," Steve nodded, and left, trying to project calm.


	4. Chapter 4

\------------ outside the Gemeinschaftsbank, Zurich, Switzerland -- JAN 30, 2002; 15:43 hours, local time ------------

He needed to get out of the city before anyone could get a bead on him. He knew that. Jumping on the tram that conveniently happened to stop right in front of him as he exited the building, Steve followed the instinct that told him he needed to get out of sight.

That same instinct carried him back to the main station and prompted him to get a ticket for the first long-distance train out of Zurich. It happened to be the one connecting Zurich to the capital city of Bern, and the price made him very glad he had cash at his disposal. Some fifty francs poorer, he took his ticket and hurried to the platform, knowing that he had less than five minutes to get to the train from his position at the ticket counter.

Once he was on board, he relaxed a little. The odds were good that his pursuit had lost track of him, but he hadn't exactly been stealthy in his escape, and it was entirely possible that they'd track him.

 

\------------ outside the main station, Bern, Switzerland -- JAN 30, 2002; 16:47 hours, local time ------------

One of the things he was really starting to appreciate was the Swiss habit of posting maps everywhere in public spaces and providing copies for tourists. He'd snagged a map of the city on his way out of the station, and just meandered through the old part of the town for a quarter hour. He'd needed to determine whether he'd been followed, before he could move on. If there had been anyone on that train who'd been informed by whoever'd been watching him at the bank, he might already be in trouble.

The knowledge was making him jumpy.

Giving in to the instinct that was driving him back to the main station and toward the other areas of town, Steve walked around until he found a public phone booth. It would give him an excuse to get out of 'public' in that it was insulated and sound didn't tend to travel in or out much unless the door was open. Slipping inside, he put a franc into the phone and picked up the receiver. When the dial tone played, he entered the number of his supposed address in Paris.

He got an answering machine, which told him nothing about whether the place was still his and currently empty, watched, or a complete fiction.

Feeling eyes on him again, he hung up and looked around, trying to keep his movements smooth and casual. No one that was around was paying the remotest bit of attention to him besides a slightly curious traffic cop.

Deciding it was time to move on, Steve pushed the door open and walked on.

The next pair of cops he passed looked totally casual, but he heard their radios go off just after he passed them, and something about it felt off to his instincts.

To his surprise, he saw another pair a block later, and that was enough to send him into full on evasive maneuvers. 

Steve crossed the street in front of an approaching tram in the hopes that he could lose them, and failed, so he kept going.

A stroke of pure luck had him next to the US embassy, and he ducked inside before any of the policemen could get to him, showing his American passport to the guard and effectively leaving the policemen frustrated at the door.

That wasn't going to last long, though. He knew that even as he got in line, pretending nothing was wrong.

"No, you don't understand," a loud irritated voice was saying. It grabbed Steve's attention almost like a magnet. The voice belonged to a tall slender man with an elaborately shaped beard, and it rose and fell almost musically despite his agitation as he continued haranguing the man behind the counter. "I've been locked out of my bank accounts because the bank officials want me to prove my identity, which would have worked if you guys had given me what I needed last week! Now, because I couldn't pay, I don't have an apartment!

The clerk behind the counter said something Steve couldn't make out. The man replied in a scathing tone. "Well, excuse me! It's not my fault that not having access to my money because I can't prove who I am, thanks to the consulate requiring all manner of paperwork -- which I've had done and been bringing with me since last week, by the way -- means I no longer have an apartment!"

On the heels of that rebuttal, Steve heard the radios of the Embassy's security go off, and knew he'd just run out of time.

He tried to duck out of line and make a break for freedom.

"Hey!" An obnoxious officious voice called out. "Hey! You with the red backpack! Stop right there and put your hands up!"

A pair of security guards came at him, one from either side, and Steve just _reacted_. He wasn't even entirely sure what he'd done, but suddenly they were on the ground, groaning, and Steve was holding a stolen handgun.

The crowd behind them panicked, and Steve took advantage of the chaos to drop the gun and dive into the crowd. It wouldn't hide him for long, but he needed to get out of the building, preferably yesterday.

The attempt to arrest him hadn't been justified before, but now he'd be hunted down. An assault on two security officers inside an embassy wasn't quite an open declaration of war on the United States, but as social faux pas went, it was a pretty close second.

He'd just fucked up royally, and to make matters worse, there were any number of security cameras in that lobby. He didn't even have to look for them to know they were there.

He needed to get out and find a place to lie low until he could get some new clothes.

In the crowd's panic, they'd ended up rushing the exit doors and overwhelming the guards there, so Steve managed to get out, but the crowd was dispersing, and wouldn't provide him cover for more than a couple of seconds.

Hastily, he shrugged his bright blue parka off as he walked, tucking it under his arm, and bundling his backpack inside it. It was a crude layer of misdirection, but every little bit counted now.

He ducked into a side alley, and did a double take. The man from the counter was here, and he looked pissed. Seeing it for the opportunity it was, Steve cautiously walked over.

As Steve approached, he looked up and growled. "What're you looking at."

"Well," Steve tried to pick his words carefully, "I couldn't help but overhear you at the counter inside."

The man huffed. "Bunch of nitpicking assholes."

"And, I was thinking that maybe we could help each other out." Steve offered.

"I'm listening."

"You need money and a place to stay," Steve started, and heard the man grit his teeth, "and I can offer you both, if you want them."

"What's the catch?"

"Sorry?" Steve tried to play dumb. It was ruined by his tiny flinch when a police cruiser sped past on the main road, sirens blaring.

"Wait," the man's blue eyes narrowed. "Is that for you?"

"I'll tell you all about it," Steve decided, "if you say yes. I can offer you ten grand now, cash. And ten more when we get there."

"What," the stranger scoffed, "You think I'm gonna fall for that old trick?"

Steve shrugged, and reached into his backpack. Pulling out a bundle of notes, he tossed them over. "No, but if you refuse, I'll be needing that back."

Another police car drove by, and it seemed to make the stranger reconsider for a long moment. But eventually, he nodded. "Alright. Get in. And tell me where the hell it is we're apparently going."

Steve grinned, relieved that he had a quiet way out of town, and reached down to open the car's passenger door. "Paris."

\------------


End file.
